The Tree of Life (Lost Civilizations: 3)

by Vaughn Heppner

“That’s part of the allure, don’t you see?”

  Gens muttered something unintelligible.

  The Dolphin was a red brick tavern where brawny men unloaded caskets of wine. They stared at Adah and eyed Gens. Maybe the scowl Gens gave them stilled their lewd comments. Adah entered through the main door, Gens following close behind. It was gloomy in the tavern, with many unkempt men drinking wine or eating fish and lobster. Hanging oil lamps provided the illumination. There were low tables, a sunken sand pit for belly dancers, while slave women wearing veils of silk and tinkling bronze anklets carried jugs of wine and platters of food. There were alcoves for men who wished to take their pleasure with the harlots, and against the dim back wall was Adah's goal, a small stage for musicians. A sad-eyed flute-player presently accompanied a bawdy female singer.

  Adah spoke to the proprietor, as he wiped his ham-sized hands on his apron. His cropped ears bespoke of punishments for thievery. She gave him a gold piece, and assured him she’d only play an hour. He seemed skeptical, but greedily eyed the coin, and at last agreed. So, as the sun set and more people entered, Adah headed for the stage.

  A hush fell over the crowd as this stunning girl several cuts above the average tavern singer made her way onto the platform. Many of the rough men glanced at each other as she struck the first chords on her lyre. Her voice was clear and feminine. It caused more than one hunch-shouldered dockworker to freeze in wonder as he stared at Adah. Then she began to move about as she sang naughty lyrics. The unkempt eaters and heavy drinkers grinned then. A few laughed. Adah winked at several, and she smiled. A big brute of a man roared approval and pounded his table with his fist. Others shouted and told him to keep silent.

  Adah changed the mood, capturing them again as her chords turned to a haunting rhythm. The men forgot their argument as they leaned forward to listen.

  Then there was an uproar as a stocky, fierce-looking fellow, hawk-eyed and handsome, followed by some twenty or thirty mercenaries, burst into the tavern. They forced weaker men from their tables, booted a reluctant protester away and banged their fists on the tables.

  Adah had lowered her lyre at the interruption. Now she smiled at the crowd. Her slender fingers plucked a new spectrum of chords, an introduction to a new song, a lilting saga of a mountain warrior who stalked a cave bear to his den.

  Some of the ousted men murmured. This was unlike the other songs, unlike those played in Carthalo. A few shouted for more songs about naked girls.

  “Silence!” roared the fierce-looking fellow, he of the proud eyes and long dark hair. “I would hear this!”

  Adah strummed her lyre. She knew of this warrior, she’d slowly gleaned information about him. Yesterday, she’d seen him sitting proudly in this very tavern. She had learned that this was Prince Ishmael of the Tribe of Erech, one of the Ten Tribes of Shur. Adah had wondered what a prince of Shur was doing in Carthalo. Prince Ishmael had slain his brother, she’d learned. It had been an accident, but the laws of Shur had banned him from his ancestral lands. A proud man, and dangerous, Prince Ishmael had taken many warriors into exile with him. After many and varied adventures, he had at last come to Carthalo. He was disgusted by the city’s luxury, and he sneered at the people's fear of the Nebo, of Gog and his pirates. Like all good Shurites, he hated Nephilim and First Born.

  Adah now sang about a warrior who raided a valley.

  The rough-looking men of Shur listened closely. They were heavyset, bearded, with the lined faces of men of action. Maybe their clothes were shaggy, their leather armor stained, but their bronze wristlets gleamed, and their backs, no matter how much they drank, were stiff and straight. By their rapt attention, Adah knew she sang what they loved. These were not love chants, or amorous tales of licentious behavior, but the songs of heroes, of warriors, of glory and renown.

  The long-haired spies, who waited in the shadows where only Adah and Gens could see them, grew visibly uncomfortable. The fourth man, he with the pink cheeks, fondled his leather purse. Adah wondered what poisons he kept there.

  As the mountain-bred warriors drained their cups many times and listened ever more intently, Adah’s hour began to draw to a close, and she sang her new song. It told about Jotunheim, the crypt, Tarag, trolocks and adamant armor. The pink-faced spy arose, and spoke with the ear-less proprietor. Wine was brought to Prince Ishmael’s table.

  Adah stopped in mid-song, and stared boldly at the prince.

  “What is it?” he said, his head erect, his voice loud.

  “Do not drink that wine,” she said.

  Prince Ishmael frowned at the newly arrived jug.

  The innocent-looking man, who sat near the ruffians with luxurious hair, rose and reached into his robe.

  “You’ve been given poison,” Adah said into the hushed room.

  Knives appeared in the hands of the ruffians. They rushed the stage, with their hair streaming behind them. Gens was there, his sword drawn. Prince Ishmael, open-mouthed at the sight, roared orders as he jumped to his feet. As the first ruffian stabbed at Gens, short spears flew through the air. The ruffians cried out, each speared. A knife flew at Adah. She ducked, and threw one of her own. The pink-faced man who had seemed so rabbit-like before sank with a moan to the sawdust-littered floor.

  Men and women fled, crying out in fear.

  Prince Ishmael roared orders. The Shurites of the Tribe of Erech obeyed him instantly. Their short spears were regained, while long, dangerous-looking daggers were drawn. The corpses were wrapped in cloaks.

  “Come with us,” Prince Ishmael told Adah, “or you’ll be charged with murder. I know how these city-fools judge such things.”

  Gens shook his head.

  Adah jumped down from the stage, and whispered into his ear. Reluctantly, Gens sheathed his sword. Together, they followed Prince Ishmael through the rear door. He led them into the nearby maze of tenement buildings.

  “Is this wise?” Gens whispered.

  “No, it’s reckless,” Adah whispered. “But risks must be taken. The fate of the world is in our hands.”

  “They know I’m an Elonite, and will slit my throat.”

  “This is a prince. His honor would be stained by such acts.”

  “You don’t know Shurites,” Gens said.

  “I know princes. Worry not.”

  Gens muttered, but nodded in the end.

  Prince Ishmael led them into a dingy stone building, up several drunk-strewn flights of stairs, and into a large room. More Shurites were here, as well as weapons, armor and a few goats. Several of the warriors cooked goat meat over an open flame.

  “Barbarians,” Gens hissed under his breath.

  “Mountain-trained warriors,” Adah whispered back.

  Prince Ishmael laughed heartily, as the door closed, and a solid oak bar was thrown into place. He clapped men on the back. “Adventure!” he said. “That’s the spice of life.”

  “You speak truly,” Adah told him.

  Shurites frowned at her and glowered at Gens. Prince Ishmael eyed her speculatively. “You saved my life,” he said.

  “Then you believe that the wine was poisoned?” she asked.

  “I do.”

  “Why?” she asked. “I may have planned the entire event.”

  Several of the older Shurites nodded. They clearly distrusted her.

  Prince Ishmael laughed, although one of his men whispered hotly into his ear. Prince Ishmael brushed the man away. “Sit,” he told her and Gens.

  They sat cross-legged on the floor.

  Prince Ishmael joined them. “Bring wine,” he said.

  A burly warrior pointed angrily at Gens. “He’s an Elonite. Let’s slit his throat.”

  Prince Ishmael drew one of those long, wicked-looking daggers that all the Shurites seemed to have, and rapped the hilt on the floor. “Wine!” he bellowed. “Bring me wine!”

  Someone tossed him a leather jug.

  Prince Ishmael took a long swallow, and pitched the jug to Gens.

  “May
your weapons always be sharp,” Gens said. He drank, and tossed the jug back to the prince.

  “Ah!” cried the prince. “May your horses never be lame!”

  A brief smile flickered over Gens’s stony features.

  “What about you, woman?” asked the prince. “Why did you tell me about the poisoned wine?”

  “May I not first drink from your jug?” Adah asked.

  “A bold wench,” muttered one of the heavyset warriors.

  “Does she think she’s a warrior?” asked another.

  Prince Ishmael tossed her the jug.

  Adah lifted it high, and said, “To bold adventure.”

  The prince’s eyes sparkled with delight.

  Adah took a sip, and threw the jug back to the prince.

  “To a small and beautiful woman who sings well,” said the prince. “May your throwing knives never be dull.” He drank another long draught.

  Adah had learned much about the Shurites from their hereditary enemies, the Elonites. The warriors from the Paran Hills were considered bold and reckless. Afoot, often in mere bands of twenty or thirty, they dared to try to capture Tarsh caravans or flinch from Elonite herds. The Elonites, in their chariots, had the advantage, at least on the plains. A Shurite, according to Gens or Herrek or even Zillith, was a proud man, quick to take offense, quick to strike back for his honor. He was a warrior bred to brutal battle. Courage, honor, daring, those were qualities prized by the hillmen. Above all else, luck was prized. If a war-leader were lucky, his men would follow him anywhere.

  Adah wondered how lucky the prince’s men considered him.

  “How did you know the wine was poisoned?” asked a burly Shurite.

  “The long-haired men were spies,” Adah said.

  “Whom did they spy upon?” asked the prince.

  “Me,” Adah said.

  “Do you know who they spied for?” he asked.

  “I have a guess,” she said.

  He inclined his handsome head. His long dark hair brushed forward.

  “Gog,” she said, never taking her eyes from his.

  Shurites gasped. Some made the sign of Elohim. A few muttered that they should throw their guests into the street.

  “If Gog’s spies were after you, why would they poison my wine?” asked the prince.

  “Because of the fat one with the pink cheeks,” Adah said. “He divined my plan.”

  The large room grew quiet, except for the bleating goats and crackling fire.

  “You intrigue me,” the prince said.

  “You heard my songs. I sang of things that happened.”

  His dark eyes narrowed. “You sang of Tarag, of giants and trolocks.”

  She nodded.

  The prince asked, “They broke into a crypt where there was holy armor, the armor of Shining Ones?”

  “No, the armor of bene elohim,” she said.

  “Ishmael!” cried an older, burly man, “why listen any longer? She’s mad. Leave her to her weirding songs.”

  Prince Ishmael looked closely at Adah. Among his men, he was the only one without a beard. He stroked his square chin. “Speak on,” he said.

  “You’re bold,” she said.

  He shook his head, anger flashing across his face. “Don’t give me false praise. Speak only the truth.”

  She leaned forward and spoke in a whisper, “A First Born plans to enter the Garden of Eden.”

  “No man knows where Eden lies.”

  “Wrong,” Adah said. “Irad the Arkite knew. Joash learned from him. The fiend with the golden medallion also knows. You can be certain then that Tarag, King of the Sabertooths, knows. He plans to cross swords with the guardian Cherub.”

  Prince Ishmael set down his jug. His face was stern. “You speak in riddles, Singer.”

  “Do you still want the truth?” she asked.

  He paused only a moment. “Speak,” he said.

  Adah told him about the expedition into Jotunheim, the battle on the beach, the sailing, the slith, Nidhogg and the Falan. One by one, the prince’s men sat around them.

  When Adah was finished speaking, the prince asked, “You swear this is true?”

  “Elohim knows I speak the truth,” she said.

  “In my heart, I feel this is so.” He jabbed his dagger into the wooden floor, and asked, “Why did Gog’s assassin try to poison me?”

  “The fat assassin understood what I planned.”

  “Which is what?”

  “That I would ask you to join us,” Adah said. “We must stop Tarag. First, however, we must find Arkite Land. Then we must find the Snow Leopard Country of Irad the Arkite. From there, hopefully, we will be able to discover where this Forbidden Territory is, and from there, Eden.”

  The silence in the room was profound.

  “Who’s your leader?” Prince Ishmael sharply asked.

  “A Seraph.”

  “Ah,” Prince Ishmael said, “good. We in the Paran Hills know of Seraphs. What’s the Seraph’s name?”

  “He’s an old man, wise in the ways of the Nephilim.”

  “He would have to be wise to have done as much as he has.”

  “He’s brave and bold,” Adah said.

  “As a leader should be,” Prince Ishmael said.

  “He will dare anything to save the Earth.”

  Prince Ishmael gestured impatiently.

  “I fear to give you the name,” Adah admitted.

  “Fear not. I honor such men.”

  “You might find him displeasing.”

  “His name!” roared the prince. “What is it?”

  “Lord Uriah.”

  The mountain-bred warriors of Shur stared at her in shock.

  “He who our King hates above all others?” the prince asked.

  “No,” Adah said. “I hope that isn’t so. I hope Shur, the son of Uriah, hates the Nephilim and First Born more than his own father. This is not about feuds, blood-debts and rivalry. This is about the end of the Earth as we know it. About the evil ones becoming gods. Do you dare, O Prince, to show yourself as good a man as your great, great grandfather?”

  He glared at her.

  “If not, then slit our throats,” Adah said. “Let the enemy win. But if you’re brave, if you’re bold, if you’re lucky, then help us stop Tarag.”

  “She’s mad,” a Shurite said.

  “Has Lord Uriah sent you here?” asked the prince.

  “Lord Uriah has no idea where I’ve gone. But if you pledge to follow him in this thing, then he could not turn you away.”

  A big, burly man spat on the floor near Adah’s feet.

  The prince looked at the man.

  “Elonites are blood-foes,” said the shaggy-bearded warrior.

  “He is your Patriarch,” Adah said. “Either abandon him, and the Earth, or try to stop the greatest evil of our age.”

  A thin, tight smile grew on the prince’s face. “Tell me,” he said, “if we win though, would you fashion as fine a song for me, as you did for Herrek and Lord Uriah?”

  “No!” cried the shaggy-bearded warrior.

  “I would,” Adah said.

  “You’ll have my answer at the docks when you leave,” said the prince. “Now, let me escort you to the Siga, before the League mariners begin a building-to-building search for you.”

  Adah nodded, while Gens let out a low sigh of relief.

  Chapter Seven

  The Obelisk

  “Tear down your father’s altar to Baal and cut down the Asherah pole beside it.”

  -- Judges 6:25

  For Joash, the days passed. The mountain trails grew steeper and rockier, and the animals fled at their approach. The sabertooths looked thinner, shaggier and were more bad-tempered than they’d been in the lowlands.

  “Nephilim Mimir,” Joash said. They walked along a ledge beside a towering black cliff. To the left and a thousand feet straight down was a valley of sharp rocks. When the gusts blew hardest, Joash worried about slipping. The narrow path constantly
turned sharply. A crow cawed down at them from a nest above. It reminded Joash of Balak and his egg-robbing days. The memories were bitter, but also challenging. The day he’d scaled down the cliff had been among his greatest, his greatest feat of daring.

  Mimir strode beside him, his links of his mail jangling at each stride. The giant wore his helmet, and ate fistfuls of raisins, digging them from a pouch at his side.

  “I would ask you about the Gibborim,” Joash said.

  Mimir grinned down at him, with raisins stuck in his horse-sized teeth. “Do you grow curious about Lersi’s fabled beauty?”

  Joash recalled the night of his capture. Her beauty had struck him like a slap in the face. He had wanted her, and only with an effort of will been able to resist.

  “Is the beauty her gift of the Blood?” Joash asked.

  “Excellent,” Mimir mocked. “Your perceptions have sharpened. Your time spent with us is proving useful.”

  Joash ignored the sarcasm as he kept his eye on the trail. Looking up at Mimir earlier he had stepped too near the edge. It made his stomach queasy. He touched the black cliff towering beside him, wanting to lean against it. He took a deep breath.

  “Gibborim eat humans, correct?” Joash asked.

  “They do,” Mimir admitted, even as he stuffed more raisins into his mouth.

  “My next question is not out of spite,” Joash said. “Why don’t giants eat humans?”

  “I see, you think all Nephilim are vile.”

  “So I’ve been taught.”

  “…Teaching has much to do with it,” Mimir said thoughtfully. “Yorgash is the father of the Gibborim. In many ways, he’s like his pets, the slith. He can fly, has reptilian features and his nature is that of an intelligent crocodile. His children have therefore learned to treat humanity as things, as animals.”

  “As you treat the white-haired men?” asked Joash.

  “Come now, Seraph. Elonites have slaves. Elonite nobles refrain from manual labor. Are Elonites also vile?”

  “Elonites do not forbid their slaves to speak,” Joash said indignantly.

  “So, a few slave practices are different,” Mimir said. “The essence of the matter is the same. But Gibborim—Paugh! They feast upon men. Logic shows the vileness of the act.”